


I Was Singing Bye-Bye Mr Emotional Pie

by IvyPane



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Yeah that's gonna go down well), Baking, Cooking, Dean Loves Pie, Dean Winchester and Feelings, Dean and Cas talk things out for once, Fluff, M/M, PIEEE, Pie, Post-Cas returning to bunker, SO MUCH FLUFF YOU DONT EVEN KNOW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyPane/pseuds/IvyPane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is finally back in the bunker and wants to learn how to be a human. Dean lets him help bake a pie, and spending time with Castiel makes his tongue loosen about the past, the present and the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Was Singing Bye-Bye Mr Emotional Pie

"Are you planning to cook?”

The soft voice made Dean jump and almost drop the bowl he was holding. He hissed under his breath and leaned on the counter for a second, head down, before he turned around and looked at Castiel, standing in the kitchen doorway as if lost, wearing one of Dean’s crumpled white FBI shirts and a pair of jeans.

"Dammit, Cas." he growled. He ignored how pathetic it sounded; so different to how he might have said it before, when, despite the horrific circumstances, everything about their relationship was somehow clearer, more defined. His eyes sparkled fiercely as he looked at the somewhat dishevelled angel, trying to ward him off before he even opened his mouth again. "You shouldn't be up. I know you said that you’ve been doing just fine without us, but from the state of the clothes you arrived in, I just don’t believe that.” He turned back to the counter, pretending to be busy. “Last thing we need is you fainting from sleep deprivation like an over-sized Princess Peach." he added as an after-thought. The words sounded rough.

“I’m fine, Dean.” Castiel’s voice was plaintive, almost petulant, and it made Dean bite back a grin despite himself. “I can’t vouch for fighting, but helping out at home is the least I can do right now.” The hunter’s heart leapt into his mouth when he heard Castiel call the den of the Men of Letters ‘home’, just like that, like it meant nothing. Cas had come closer, he could feel it, refusing to be deterred; Dean turned a third time, unnerved by the dance of the other’s eyes on his shoulder-blades. He felt like a jammed record playing the same useless song when he met Castiel’s blue eyes, too close again, and reflectively murmured “Bit of space, Cas.” Castiel didn’t even pretend to think about stepping away; he met him with a close, earnest stare.

“I just want to help, Dean.” He tilted his head to the side by a hairsbreadth, in the way only Dean seemed to notice; it was as if the angel was always asking for a kiss. “I always just want to help.” Dean’s gut clenched at that; guilt surged over him as he remembered how he had forced himself to send Castiel away. He looked down at the bowl he was still clutching, then looked back up and handed it to the other man. Cas smiled faintly, almost sleepily in reply.

They didn’t speak as Dean added ingredients to the bowl in Castiel’s hands. After the hunter had broken the eggs and emptied them in, he gave the angel a long look; Cas was rigidly holding the dish as if it might grow legs, jump out of his hands and scuttle off. The Winchester couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that slipped out at Castiel’s serious expression. He took the bowl from his hands and the other man gave him a worried look, all drawn eyebrows and pursed mouth, as if he was scared he’d done something wrong to warrant this great privilege being taken away. Dean found a smile still sticking to his face. They looked at each other for a moment before Dean turned his face away and grinned even wider. “You’ve been watching humans since the beginning of time and you don’t know how to make dough? Man…” Dean shook his head, marvelling how a being that has killed countless creatures in the name of God could be so clueless.

“I’ve never had occasion to learn.” Cas remarked stiffly, looking away as if embarrassed. “…And I know perfectly well how; I’ve just never done it.” The green of Dean’s eyes was lit up like leaves bathed in spring sunshine, and Castiel wondered what exactly he found so amusing.

“Okay, let’s make a deal.” Dean put the bowl down and held his hands up in a gesture of compromise. “If I teach you to bake a pie, which is what I was gonna make anyway, you have to stay in bed for another day. Capiche?” Castiel gave Dean a blank stare. “I’m just worried about you. No need to look at me like that!” Dean amended almost defensively.

“I capiche.” Cas replied slowly. He tried to unsuccessfully hide an askew smile. Dean glanced around the kitchen briefly and took the spare apron off the hook, handing it to Castiel so he wouldn’t ruin his clothes. Cas raised a quizzical eyebrow so Dean huffed in frustration, spun him around by the forearm and threw the apron over his neck, tying it for him in a firm knot. Castiel frowned slightly as he reverted his attention back to the bowl, evidently trying to dredge something up from his memory, or perhaps trying to ignore how comfortable Dean suddenly was with touching him. “What kind of pie are you baking?”

“My favourite pie,-” Dean started.

“Apple and pecan.” Cas nodded back. Dean gave him a somewhat addled look; he was sure he had never mentioned it in front of him. Cas turned his head a little and opened his mouth, closing it again without elaborating. He half-shrugged. “Most likely residual information from when I pieced your soul back together after Hell.” he intoned as if it were the most mundane thing in the world.

“Info about my favourite type of pie is part of the… Stuff that makes up my soul?” Dean snorted. “Clearly, I am a man of the utmost complexity.”

“I hardly think anybody could ever imply you are not complex, Dean.” Cas replied evenly. Dean almost froze but instead shook his head and stepped back a little.

“You know what, this is getting stupid; let’s just make the damn pie. Can you mix that?” He gestured to the bowl. Cas nodded curtly, turned on his heel and almost plunged his whole hand into the bowl before Dean caught his elbow with a yelp.  
“Dude, I know you might have only paid attention to bread-making at the point in time where people kneaded it by stepping in it repeatedly, but nowadays we have equipment for that.” Dean firmly put a mixing spoon into then angel’s hand. Castiel gave him a disbelieving look.

“I know I’m not the epitome of knowledge on humanity’s behaviour, but even I am aware of the existence of stirring tools.” He put the spoon down as if its very existence gave him personal offence. “I merely believe that everything is better when it is done by a physical human hand. Most great works of art are a testimony to that.” There was an undercurrent of passion in his low, rough voice. Dean let go of the fabric of his shirt after a moment’s hesitation.

“If you’re associating this pie with art, you’re on the right track.” Dean joked, raising his eyebrows. He reached over and undid the cuffs of the angel’s shirt, helping him slide the material up to his elbows. He knew he was treating Cas like a child but – damn it – he couldn’t fight the overwhelming urge to baby him, touch him, check he was real. Castiel’s skin was warm and alive where his fingers briefly brushed it; Dean had almost forgotten that he wasn’t, in fact, a marble statue watching them from far away; that he was inhabiting flesh and blood, that he was human now. The warmth was reassuring. “Get going.” he told him, and Cas pretended that he wasn’t confused by Dean’s increasingly frequent touches at all.

Dean simmered syrup in a saucepan as Castiel worked through the dough with his long fingers, mixing everything together. Intermittently, Dean would find his eyes straying from the gold, bubbling liquid on the hob to the face of his friend, concentrating on the task Dean had given him as if it were the single most important thing in the world. Dean poured the syrup into a smaller bowl and set it down on the counter, taking a deep breath as the smell of warm sugar washed over him. He came over to stand behind Castiel and peered at his work critically, watching him for a moment before clapping him on the shoulder. “That’s great, Cas.” he said, and Castiel looked over at him as if not believing he truly meant the praise. “Do you want me to show you how to roll it out?”

“Yes, please.” Cas nodded, thoughtfully scraping globs of dough from his fingers as he waited for Dean to get out a well-worn wooden rolling pin.

“None of that plastic crap some people use nowadays. Plastic shouldn’t be anywhere near hand-made food.” Dean muttered under his breath as he headed back over to stand behind a softly smiling Castiel.

“Who taught you to cook?” the angel asked as Dean caged him in with his arms, deftly flipping all the dough out of the bowl and scattering flour over the table top at the same time in one smooth motion. He felt rather than saw the hunter jerk his shoulders in a shrug behind him.

“Same person who taught me to always look after Sammy; myself.” Dean replied without preamble. Castiel knew better than to ask about whether John Winchester had anything at all to do with it, or if he left his older son to fend for himself in yet another field. The answer seemed obvious.

“What about the recipe? Is it from a book?” Castiel asked again, feeling the tension and trying to change the subject. Becoming human made him instinctively sensitive to these things. He couldn’t decide if it was an asset or a hindrance. The smell of the syrup Dean had concocted, together with extra sugar and undertones of rum and butter filled his parted lips and hollow head and weary body. It was almost intoxicating; inexplicably, it made him want to lean closer to Dean’s chest and stay there, just there, in the bright, clean kitchen for longer than either of them possibly had. It was a thought that would have been strange to him if he was still an angel, but after all the running he had done recently, the thought of safety and home was suddenly overwhelming. Castiel only realised that Dean hadn’t replied to his question when Dean picked up both of Castiel’s hands and positioned them on either side of the rolling pin, leaving his own resting on top to guide him.

“Please tell me you at least know how this works.” Dean teased light-heartedly, breath skirting Castiel’s cheekbone as he spoke.

“I understand the concept, of course.” Cas told him, facing completely forward, scared to move even a little. If he turned his face even a fraction to the left, he was sure Dean’s nose would brush against his cheek; if he shifted his body backwards into even a fraction of a slouch, he was sure he would be pressed into the hunter as snugly as a hand into a glove. For his part, Dean seemed spectacularly unaffected, although Castiel thought he felt an unnaturally fast rhythm thump-thump-thumping where Dean’s heart toiled, next to his own spine.

“Like this…” Dean accompanied the words with a gentle roll of the cylinder under his and Castiel’s hands, back and forth, flattening the soft dough. Castiel liked how smoothly everything slid under the old wood, how gentle Dean’s hands were in the motions against the backs of his own, even despite the roughness of his palms from countless hunts. He could feel the firmness of his trigger finger, the patches where blisters had been from digging up graves, the parts of his skin that had been worn hard by the handle of a knife. Another part of him thought of the things these hands did that left no mark upon them; how they cooked, like now, how they bandaged wounds, how they assembled summonings and were dyed red with blood, how they powdered medicine and flipped through books, how they touched the skin of countless faceless women and-

"C'mon Cas, don't fall asleep." Dean laughed coarsely next to him and, just like that, the hands were gone. Cas's own felt suddenly a lot weaker without them. "Tell you what; you're good at mixing, so mix the syrup with a bunch of eggs and all that stuff there for the filling. Use the whisk though." Dean pursed his lips. "I mean, art is art, but let's not get too crazy with sticking our fingers everywhere. Cooking's a pretty precise science." With an ease just short of whistling, Dean picked up an apple and a knife, deftly peeling and gutting it without a second thought. He had finished cutting and slicing three fruits and had gone back to the dough by the time Castiel spoke again.

"You never said where you got this recipe." Dean had deftly rolled the crust out already and was halfway through putting it into the oven when Castiel's question registered. He stopped momentarily before finishing his task and peering over at the angel, eyes wide open and sad. Cas faked nonchalance and, in turn, stared down at the cream he was mixing intently, as if hypnotising it into thickening.

"My mom..." Dean took a quick breath. "Mom used to make pie just like this. It's one of the clearest memories I have that doesn't involve her... Dying." He sounded a little strangled, but he was uncompromising; he refused to say "passing" or "leaving". Castiel watched him silently, wishing he hasn't insisted on asking the question a second time. He wanted to take it back, to tell Dean to stop, but his own throat felt far too tight as well. Dejectedly, he thought to himself that, if he was still an angel, he would have been able to make himself speak no matter what.

Dean defeatedly fell against one of the bare walls, propping himself up with his arms behind him, head tipped back as he looked out somewhere distant. "I think I remember so well because of the smell. It was... Home. For a long time." Dean turned back to look at Cas. "After she... Died, I made a point of looking through all her things and I found the recipe. It wasn't in a book or anything; just a scrappy piece of paper sandwiched between a mess of old photos and bills." He was smiling a little, a sad smile etched so deeply into his face that it had clearly helped to shape it from the beginning. “That was before dad stowed all her things away God-knows where, that is.” Castiel clutched the whisk in his hand tighter than he could possibly have needed.  
"He pretended to develop a nut allergy just so he wouldn't have to smell me baking this. I teased him for it; if the great John Winchester could be conquered by nothing but a handful of pecan nuts, we didn't stand a chance…! That didn't help.” Dean swallowed glumly. “I guess I get why he did what he did now." Dean rolled his head to the side wearily. "Now our new home smells like our old one. And I'm not sure if that's good or bad; if we're holding on or letting go, staying or moving on, not anymore." He turned his head back to Castiel and looked at him flatly. "I bet you feel exactly the same about us."

The oven let out a deafening ‘ping’. Dean shifted his gaze sharply and went to get the crust out, but Castiel didn't move a muscle, only dropping his head and closing his eyes to try and not see Dean’s guilt and pain burning through him.

Dean unceremoniously took the bowl of cream from the counter behind the angel and Castiel, eyes still tightly shut, heard the agitated clatter of the spoon as Dean scooped the cream filling into the base. The oven door slammed a second time; an apron flopped down on a counter sharply. Dean's footsteps retreated down the hall to the living room. Removing his own apron in a haze, Castiel found himself following.

The hunter was perched on the edge of a sofa, leaning his elbows on his knees, head hanging down in a mirrored reflection of how Castiel had just stood in the kitchen. Stepping purposefully loudly to announce his presence in case it was unwanted, Castiel walked to the lounge chair opposite and sat. Dean looked up at him, his eyes shining like bedewed grass.

"What's going on, Cas?" he asked without hesitation, almost choking on the words. Clearly, he did not expect an answer. "What's been happening to us? What have you been doing? What have I been doing?"

"You've been having to deal with my 'bullshit', if you will. And I suppose you think that I’ve been having to deal with yours." Castiel's voice was significantly steadier but his eyes were equally haunted and all the more guilty. "For my part; I… I'm sorry. I'm sorrier than I could begin to say, excepting the fact that I already seem to be doing nothing but apologising to you these past few years. I'm sorry for that too." His words marched out of his mouth like soldiers, allowing no stumbles, giving no excuses. Dean's face fell into a pained smile.

"Cas, nothing you've done was your fault, alright? None of it. It was crappy, crappy circumstance. The only thing… I just don't get, is… From the beginning, from when it all went to bloody hell, from Crowley... You never said properly why you didn't just come to me for help. Why, Cas?" His eyes grew dark, his voice lowered. "Didn't you trust me? Because, if you had just told me…" he didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. They both knew; if Castiel had trusted Dean, maybe none of the rest of the things that happened after would have had a chance to happen at all.

"Of course I trusted you. Don't be ridiculous." Cas fired back. "I..." He breathed out in exasperation. He never thought he'd have to explain this to Dean, and so only now realised how incredibly childish his reasons sounded. "I… I saw you. With Lisa. Living your life. I saw you were happy. I saw you were safe. I saw you were loved, I saw you as you deserved to be; needed to be." His eyes bore into Dean's, desperate to make him understand. "I would rather have lost all of Heaven, lost all my brothers and sisters, than have had to drag you into danger when, for once, you were out of it. Willingly out of it. Willingly safe." He clenched his jaw. "I made that imbecilic deal with Crowley after I resolved not to touch you. It was all downhill from there, as you know."

The only reply was a stunned silence. Cas didn’t move his eyes from Dean’s face, Dean didn’t move his from Castiel’s. “You made a deal with the King of Hell…” Dean began testily. “…because of me. Because you thought I deserved to be happy with Lisa and Ben. Is that it?” Cas nodded quickly in reply, eyes navy whirlpools of worry. Dean sat back, tipping his head up to stare at the ceiling. For a moment he was silent, and then a rough laugh clawed up his throat. Castiel kept his eyes firmly fixed on him, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth as he tried to gouge the meaning of this reaction. “You…” The hunter dissolved into a low, rumbling chuckling that made his chest heave with every breath, that made Cas’s heart stutter a little in frantic reply. Dean’s face flushed lightly from his laughter and he doubled forward in the sofa, unable to help himself. “You… You…” he panted helplessly. “You… Cas…” He shook his head through his laughter, eyes almost sad.

“…I’m sorry for making a choice you clearly find so ridiculous. I didn’t think...” Even to his own ears, Castiel’s voice sounded hurt. Dean instantly stopped laughing and stared at him, studying his face. The burn of his eyes was suddenly too much – a problem Castiel hadn’t really experienced before now and was finding more and more infuriating – and Castiel looked down.

“Cas, that’s not what I…” Dean sighed. “Your motives, they were so…” He laughed softly again, this time in obvious disbelief. “…so angelic. Damn.” He cleared his throat. Castiel waited, looking up tentatively. “Take me and my most recent blunder, in comparison; sending you away? Yeah, that was all because I wanted to save Sam and Zeke was being a dick about you being around. In short, it was all stupid, avoidable, I bet, if I had half a brain. But you… You did that shit for me.” Dean’s expression grew angry. “Hell, you did lots of shit for me. Too much. And what did I do for you? Hah.” The laugh was bitter, now. “Failed to drag you out of purgatory? Check. Let you die a whole bunch of times? Check. Man, I can’t even count how many times I didn’t listen to you when I should have or didn’t help you when I should have, how many times I let you down and-”

“Dean; shut up.” Castiel interrupted suddenly. Dean looked up at him as if he had been struck. Castiel stared back, fierce. “With all due respect.” he added, to lessen the blow. Dean’s mouth almost quirked into a smile, but he stopped himself at the last moment. Castiel’s face softened in reply. “Dean…” he breathed, composing himself. “I have done… Many, many horrible things. I have done an immeasurable number of horrible things. I have killed angels and humans, I have been wrathful and blind and power-hungry and…” He paused for a moment, as if in thought. “…lonely.” he finished quietly. Dean looked on, face still and awed. “But, most of all; I have let you down. No matter how much I tried not to, I let you down. I let heaven and humanity down too, but somehow, that is…” He frowned at himself, unable to understand his feelings. “…unimportant, in comparison to failing you. Failing Sam, yes. But mostly, failing you. Failing your trust and your kindness. Failing your friendship. And, having failed you as many times as I have, I don’t want to listen to you blaming yourself.” Dean was silent. “There are many things that I would do for you, Dean Winchester; you, who showed me such kindness, and loyalty, and…” Castiel froze and didn’t speak a moment, then continued, disjointedly. “In fact, for you, I’d do almost anything. But one of the things I won’t do a second longer is abide by your self-loathing.” The ex-angel sat back in his armchair, resolute. Dean’s lips shifted into a small smile.

“Then I won’t put up with you shutting me out every time you have a problem.” He paused. “And putting toothpaste straight in your mouth instead of on the brush like a regular human being.” he retorted.

“That’s fair.” Castiel nodded, then grinned suddenly. “In that case, I suppose I won’t put up with you making guttural sleeping sounds next-door to me every night.”

Dean looked almost offended. “I do not snore! You know what; you have no proof. I refuse to listen to this.”

“I suppose Sam was too polite to ever mention it, but you do snore, Dean.” Castiel sniffed.

“Cas, I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again; get out of my ass.” Dean grumbled, getting up off the couch at last and stretching gently, content.

“I will not. I like it there.” Castiel said with a straight face. Dean dissolved into laughter in reply.

“You dirty sonovabitch, who taught you to joke like that?” he asked through his chuckles.

“I learn from the best.” Castiel replied, looking up with a smile.

In the kitchen, the oven chimed. Dean grinned widely, and turned to get the pie. The smile refused to leave his face.


End file.
